


Certainty

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, midokiseweek 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:49:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apartment is perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certainty

**Author's Note:**

> midokise week day 7: future

It’s just another tour, another apartment they’ll nitpick to the death and decide not to rent. That’s what Shintarou tells himself as they wait at the door for the realtor. The area is nice; he’ll give the apartment that, and the outside hall is well-lit and the ceilings nice and high.

The door doesn’t creak on its hinges like the apartment they looked at yesterday, and the paint in the hallway is fresh and clean. Ryouta opens the coat closet; it’s large enough and it even has shelves and a rack already inside. But these are just baselines, and they deserve more than this—they shouldn’t be satisfied with something that meets a low standard. Shintarou nods as the realtor blabs on about how many times the light fixtures have been redone and how there used to be sconces and they could redo the wiring and put them back; he’s more concerned about the living room. It’s big and beautiful, the way the late afternoon sunlight shines through the south-facing windows and off the walls making them almost glow. Shintarou swallows. There’s no falling in love with the place; he and Ryouta have agreed to that (or called a truce after that blowout fight over the three-bedroom Ryouta decided they had to have with the ugly bathrooms and shitty layout and terraces that weren’t big enough to actually go out on but had jacked up the price of the apartment anyway).

“Shintarou,” Ryouta says in almost a whisper, threading his fingers into Shintarou’s. “There’s enough room to fit a grand piano in the back.”

There is; the floor plan had said as such—but other floor plans have as well, and the living rooms had turned out to be tiny and impractically-built. Here, though, he can actually visualize it taking up space near the wall, the bench in the corner and the piano opening into the rest of the room. And it wouldn’t dominate the space; there would be room for bookcases full of books and music scores, and a couch and a television and a giant coffee table that Ryouta could dump all his crap on and still have room for more. Shintarou squeezes Ryouta’s hand. The realtor is smiling wider at them; she can probably tell that they like it—and does it matter if she knows?

“Can we see the bedroom?” Ryouta says.

The realtor nods. “Absolutely. Just this way.”

They walk down the hall, past a modern bathroom and a kitchen that looks just as spacious as the living room and then the realtor flings open the door.

Light is streaming in through open windows on two sides; the ceiling fan is turning almost silently and creating enough of a breeze for Ryouta to scoot closer to Shintarou. There’s nothing spectacular about the room itself; it’s just the feeling—they could live here. They could be here for a very long time and be happy with this amount of space, even with all of Ryouta’s clothes and Shintarou’s lucky items.

“Shintarou,” says Ryouta again, this time more urgently. “I want it.”

Shintarou nods. “Me, too.”

* * *

 

It’s just a check, a neat signature on a dotted line, and a receipt. That’s what Shintarou tells himself the day they make the deposit and sign the lease. And yet there’s a sense of finality—not that he ever wanted to back out of this, not that he does at all right now, but still. This is it; the apartment is theirs. It’s only a few weeks until they actually move in, and then they’ll be living together for the next year and probably beyond that.

Ryouta’s smile is blindingly bright, brighter than it is when they airbrush his teeth on billboards. And Shintarou’s cheeks hurt from his own expression; he can’t remember the last time he smiled this widely for this long.

“It’s ours, Shintarou,” Ryouta says.

“Not yet,” says Shintarou (tempting fate does no good, and his fingers brush over the lucky plastic straw in his pocket).

“But soon,” says Ryouta, and Shintarou decides not to argue the point anymore.

* * *

 

It’s just a night, spent together like so many nights before. That’s what Shintarou gives up on telling himself when they’re sitting among the boxes of books and decorations and miscellaneous crap in that giant living room, from Shintarou’s old place and Ryouta’s former apartment and even some from Shintarou’s parents’ house. The piano looms behind them and the television is still in its bubble wrap, but the beer in their hands is cold and the cheap convenience store bento boxes are more than edible.

“We’ll finish later,” says Ryouta.

And as much as Shintarou hates having unfinished business, half-unpacked boxes of books strewn about the floor, his muscles are beginning to ache and he is so very tired after such a long day.

But after they’ve showered the sweat and dust from their bodies and make the bed, Shintarou can’t fall asleep. The alarm clock isn’t even plugged in yet and the only light is from the moon and the streetlights, coming in through the blinds and throwing pale shadows on the wall like some kind of abstract art. He shifts his arm around Ryouta again and Ryouta sighs.

“Still awake?”

“Yeah. Am I keeping you up?”

“Nah,” says Ryouta, and then he rolls over so he’s facing Shintarou.

It’s an awkward position to sleep in, but Shintarou supposes nothing else has worked.

“You’re excited, too, then,” says Ryouta.

“What?” says Shintarou. “I’m tired.”

“And you’re excited. You’re excited about this, about living together. I am, too, you know.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” says Shintarou. “We’ve stayed over at each other’s houses many times before.”

“Well,” says Ryouta, yawning. “That’s different.”

He nuzzles Shintarou’s chest. The low hum of the ceiling fan grows a little bit louder, although it’s not deafening or even unpleasant. This is different; Ryouta’s right. This isn’t one of theirs or the other’s; it belongs to both of them together. Instead of meandering along their own paths and crossing the distance every so often, they’ve joined themselves decisively. They’re facing what comes next together. Their immediate future is secured, as much as the future ever can be. And Shintarou’s only thinking pleasant thoughts as he finally drifts off to sleep, head buried in the crook of Ryouta’s neck.


End file.
